


Right Off His Feet

by EmilianaDarling



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Dancing, Drunkenness, Falling In Love, Grand Prix Final Banquet, M/M, Missing Scene
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-02
Updated: 2017-01-02
Packaged: 2018-09-14 07:46:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,457
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9169240
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EmilianaDarling/pseuds/EmilianaDarling
Summary: One of Yuuri’s hands is sliding around his waist, guiding him effortlessly until they’re dancing together. Reallydancing together, and Viktor forgets to think, to  breathe. Yuuri’s so close that Viktor can feel the heat of his breath against the back of his neck, the warmth of his skin through his clothes.Then he closes his eyes, leans into the touch, and gives in completely as he lets Yuuri lead.





	

**Author's Note:**

> It's been a wild and difficult year, but sometimes you find yourself writing up a storm in a brand new fandom and things seem a little bit brighter. <3 All of my love and appreciation to [AubreyLi](http://aubreyli.tumblr.com) and Sarah for their tireless work cheerleading, beta reading, and encouraging this fic into existence. 
> 
> I love this show and these characters so much, and being able to explore this evening between them was a real treat. I hope you enjoy!

\--

 

For all that it feels stilted and uncomfortable on his lips, Viktor knows instinctively that the smile on his face looks gracious and natural to everyone watching as he strides into the Grand Prix Final banquet with Yuri Plisetsky trailing behind him.

There’s a smattering of polite applause, men and women wrapped up in gowns and jackets and glittering jewelry all turning to survey the pair of gold medalists as they enter. Coaches and competitors, sponsors and event organizers -- all of them dressed to the nines and ready and waiting to make themselves known.

One final ordeal for the two of them to slog through before they can get on a plane and go back home.

There’s no thrill of surprise, no element of shock or excitement to his victory; it’s been years since Viktor entered one of these banquets and saw something other than a sea of faces brimming with the complacency of fulfilled expectations. Something other than benign acceptance of a foregone conclusion – perhaps marred with more of an undertone of bitter resentment, this year. Viktor is hyper-aware that having both the men’s singles gold medalists hail from Russia is bound to leave a bad taste in some people’s mouths, can pick out more than a few faces screwed up with frustration throughout the room.

He smiles like the sun anyways, ducking his head in a gesture of false modesty before continuing into the room. He accepts the flute of champagne offered to him by one of the waiters on a tray, surveying the hall passively over the rim.

“They could at least _pretend_ to be happy for us,” Yuri mutters under his breath, waving the waiter away resentfully when the poor man hesitates before him.

Viktor turns to look at him with raised eyebrows. Yuri is glowering slightly beside him, the graceful lines of his youthful body made stiffer and boxier by the dark blue suit that Viktor knows for a fact Yakov picked out for him. It makes him look as though he’s trying to appear older than he actually is, which, contrarily, seems to make the fact of his youth stand out more starkly.

“Smile, Yuri,” Viktor tells him automatically, himself beaming beatifically as Cao Bin’s coach gives him a slightly sour look from a nearby cluster of people. He takes a sip of his champagne. Out of the corner of his eye he can see Yakov across the room, midway through the process of doggedly pursuing yet another deal with a potential sponsor.  “This is part of your job now, too, after all.”

It’s true enough, Viktor thinks, but the words taste stale and rehearsed in his mouth all the same. Something Yakov has said to him so many times it’s practically seared into his eardrums.

The sentiment doesn’t seem to have much of an effect on Yuri -- seemingly out of habit more than out of any real emotion -- before his eyes light on something across the room.

“Mila’s here,” Yuri declares abruptly, eyes narrowing. A wolfish grin spreads across his delicate features. He snorts out a breath, tossing some of his pale blond hair out of his eyes. “Old bag. Her jumps were over-rotated in her free skate. I’m gonna tell her.”  

“I’m sure she knows,” Viktor says after him, watching with exasperated amusement as Yuri darts across the room towards her, his call of _oi, Mila!_ only partially drowned out by the chatter of the people around them as he goes.

Viktor huffs out a quiet breath, takes another sip of champagne and scans the room to see whether Christophe has turned up yet. He pastes on another smile when he determines that he hasn’t, straightens his back and begins to do his rounds. Makes polite conversation with a few familiar faces, laughs graciously at a few complimentary remarks.

Tries to make sure that as many competitors, coaches, and sponsors as possible get their promised dose of Five Time Grand Prix Champion Viktor Nikiforov.

It’s been years since Viktor enjoyed one of these events, since he felt the thrill of wanting to celebrate a hard-earned accomplishment. These days, people expect him to win. Whether or not they’re happy for him when it happens, his victories are a known quantity: something that people stake business deals on, his high scores ones that coaches and competitors keep trying and struggling and failing to overcome.  

The excitement, the resentment – all of it used to be something to bask in, to savour.

These days, Viktor can’t wait for these events to be over. Can’t shake the nagging feeling of being a dying star in a room full of onlookers, all of them waiting for him to go supernova: for one injury, one misstep to send him packing in a blaze of glory so that someone else can finally shine.

It doesn’t help that most of his friends -- the people he grew up competing against, dancing on the same ice and chasing the same dreams -- have largely aged out of the profession by now. Have retired to be sports commentators and university students and event judges and coaches, flung back to their respective corners of the world and reduced to a picture on Viktor’s Instagram feed. Nowadays, Christophe is one of his only real competitors left that thinks of him as something other than a living legend.

Yuri wanders back to his side a little while later, an expression of carefully-crafted apathy on his face.

“All of the other junior skaters are boring,” Yuri informs him casually, condemning the rest of his peers with a flippant huff. “I can’t wait until I can compete as a senior. Then maybe I’ll have someone interesting to talk to.”

He says it dismissively, but Viktor doesn’t miss the flash of excitement in his eyes; the way he keeps scanning around the room, eyes lighting on all the different skaters he’d never admit to idolizing. He feels himself soften; Yuri likes to smother his eagerness, to shove it away like it’s something to be ashamed of. What does shine through, though, is so genuine it almost aches. Yuri has the rest of his career before him, so much raw potential and drive to succeed. Genuine _excitement_ for what’s ahead of him.

It makes a pang of melancholy hit Viktor right in his chest, the knowledge that he is watching Yuri experience a feeling that he himself might never recapture.

“What’s wrong, Yuuri? You look so glum!”

Both of them startle at the sound of the booming voice a few feet away from them, Yuri’s head whipping towards the sound of his own name. But when Viktor turns to look, he quickly realizes that the person speaking isn’t addressing Yuri Plisetsky at all.

It’s Celestino Cialdini talking to Yuuri Katsuki, Japanese National Men’s Figure Skating Champion, and – judging by the expression on his face – quite possibly the person in the room who least wants to be here.

Viktor frowns over the rim of his champagne flute, pausing for a moment to take in the sight of him. The glasses perched on his nose make Yuuri’s face seem softer than it does on the ice, but his shoulders are hunched and rigid as he stares down at the floor. He looks very much like he had to be physically dragged here by his coach; dour and quiet, seemingly completely unmoved by Celestino’s broad hands gripping his shoulders, his loud voice in Yuuri’s ear.

He looks somber. Wrung-out.

 _Desolate_ , Viktor thinks, swallowing an instinctive pang of sympathy.

He watches as Celestino claps Yuuri on the shoulder, shoving his skater in no uncertain terms towards the refreshment table. Viktor follows him with his eyes as he goes, eyes trailing down the back of Yuuri’s dark suit, taking in the stiffness in the way he moves. The way he turns and dully surveys the banquet hall from the sidelines, as though he isn’t really taking any of it in.

“Idiot,” Yuri snaps, but under his breath as though he doesn’t want anyone else hearing. Viktor glances down at him, sees Yuri’s mouth screwed up in a pointed sneer. “Sulking won’t make him land his jumps any better.”

Viktor’s mouth twitches, and for a moment he’s viscerally struck by the memory: Yuuri Katsuki, crashing down onto the ice in a flurry of shining blue sequins. Dragging himself up again as though it physically hurts him to keep going, viciously throwing himself back into his routine only to waver and falter and hit the ice again, one botched jump after another.

He remembers the way Yuuri had stood in the centre of the rink at the end of his free skate, _fuming_ – his face screwed up in an expression of absolute fury with himself even as his fans threw flowers at his feet.

 _I wish I’d been able to connect with him before now_ , Viktor thinks a little sadly, watching covertly as Yuuri grabs one of the champagne flutes off the table and begins to swallow it down miserably.

Viktor can remember the day their coaches had introduced the two of them at the World Championships last year, when Yuuri made it to the top twenty-four and advanced to the free program with him. ~~The way~~ Yuuri’s shoulders had tensed at the sight of him, mouth pressing shut as he stared pointedly down at the ground, nodding at whatever Viktor said without speaking himself. He remembers Yuuri staring at him in blank incomprehension yesterday when Viktor had offered to take a commemorative photo with him after the competition, turning on his heel and walking away from him without so much as a word.

For all that Viktor has existed in the same space as Yuuri Katsuki during the lead-up to several major competitions now, he’s never been able to get much of a read on the man. He’s always seemed stoic, solitary; has never chosen to join the rest of them for pre-competition meals or sightseeing, seeming to prefer to remain on his own. It’s a fair enough decision: every skater has their own routine to follow before a competition. As a result, however, he’s has never had much chance to interact with Yuuri on a personal level.

Privately, Viktor finds himself hoping that Yuuri’s English simply isn’t very good: that the issue could be one of practical communication.

Viktor had watched on in sympathy when Yuuri had flubbed his jumps during his free skate, but the loss had been unfortunate, not devastating. He’s been Japan’s National Champion for the last two years running, placed silver at Skate America and bronze at the NHK Trophy. Viktor remembers Yakov showing him a YouTube video of Yuuri’s silver medal performance back in St. Petersburg, remembers taking note of the artistic grace and control of his spins.

One botched competition wasn’t enough to ruin such a promising career. Yuuri would be back next year, just like other skaters who had recovered from worse showings before him. He still had plenty of years left on the ice.

“Viktor!”

He startles a little as a man in a grey suit sidles up to him – a potential sponsor representative from H&M, he thinks – and he finally tears his eyes away from Yuuri, smoothly turning to engage him in smiling conversation. Yuri Plisetsky lingers at his side for a few minutes before losing interest, turning and sauntering away with the kind of bored nonchalance that Viktor suspects Yakov will spend the rest of the boy’s career trying to beat out of him.

He spends the next hour making polite conversation with any number of people, taking a breather in the middle to gossip over a glass of champagne with Christophe before being ushered back into mingling by Yakov. Viktor chats with Cao Bin and Michele Crispino, suffers through five whole minutes of conversation with JJ Leroy before going to have a few encouraging words with some of the awe-struck junior skaters.

The whole time, though, he can’t stop himself from catching little glimpses of Yuuri Katsuki. Over people’s shoulders, out of the corner of his eye, Viktor just keeps on noticing him over by the back table: the curve of his hand wrapped around a champagne flute, the way his long, pale throat moves when he swallows. How cute he looks with a light flush rising in his cheeks, his fingers tugging at his collar.

 _Are all those empty champagne flutes **his**? _ Viktor thinks at one point, torn between being alarmed and impressed before he’s called over by Yakov, shooting a glance at an unsteady-looking Yuuri over his shoulder as he’s dragged away.

Ten minutes later, Viktor is forcefully confronted with the reality of just how mind-bendingly, catastrophically, _amazingly_ drunk Yuuri Katsuki has been getting this whole time.

He’s standing next to Yuri Plisetsky when it happens, half-listening to the younger man’s complaints about one of the junior skaters – when all at once, Yuri cuts himself off as he stares in wide-eyed astonishment at something over Viktor’s shoulder. Viktor blinks, turns around –

And that’s when he sees it.

A dark blur moving towards them on unsteady legs. One pale hand outstretched, a long blue necktie dangling from his grasp. Flushed cheeks and wet lips and dark, bright eyes: Yuuri Katsuki, stumbling towards him with an expression of wildly intoxicated intensity on his face.

His glasses are gone, face bare and exposed, his dark hair pushed back and messy as though he’s run his hands through it, and for a second Viktor’s breath catches in his throat.

Then Yuuri’s gaze turns abruptly to Yuri Plisetsky, standing startled and wrong-footed beside him.

“ _You_!” Yuuri calls out _far too loudly_ , jabbing an unsteady finger in Yuri Plisetsky’s direction.

Viktor stares at the pair of them in unabashed astonishment, hardly able to comprehend what’s happening in front of him.

“Russian Yuri! The Russian… the ‘Russian Punk’.” Yuuri shakes his head too hard, swaying a little on his feet. “Why do you have to be so…? So…?”

At this point, Yuuri raises both hands in the air – and curls them into imagined claws, moving them in a sloppy but recognizable _rawr!_ hand gesture, as if to evoke an especially vicious and nasty cat.

 _So he does speak English_ , Viktor thinks stupidly, dumbfounded. _Well. That was mostly English, at least._

To his surprise, Yuri Plisetsky just stands there, blinking.

“What?” he asks, voice flat and stunned.

Yuuri Katsuki just _scowls._  

“You’re so young and you’re so _talented_ ,” Yuuri spits out, as though this fact is a personal offense to him. He gestures wildly, as though to encompass the hall in its entirety. “You’re going to be better than _all_ of us one day, so why do you have to be so _angry_ about it?”

There’s a beat of silence. People are starting to look over at them, a scene in the making. Viktor slowly turns his head, and –

And sees Yuri Plisetsky – who Viktor has never seen rendered speechless before in their entire acquaintance – _blushing_ softly, eyes wide and mouth hanging open.

Then, with a change of demeanor so sudden that Viktor can barely process it, Yuuri steps forward, grabs Yuri Plisetsky by the cheeks, and pulls his face into a stretched-out pantomime of a smile.

“Smile, Russian Yuri~!” Yuuri Katsuki orders him cheerfully, squishing his cheeks. “You’re so lucky! Why don’t you smile?”

And this is – this is just too good. Viktor can feel the wide, genuine smile of delight and amusement spreading across his own face as he pulls out his phone, as he tries to get his camera loaded up in time to capture the moment.

He’s not quite quick enough.

“Ow, what the _hell_!” Yuri Plisetsky snaps, yanking himself out of Yuuri’s grip, stumbling backward. He rubs at his own cheeks, still looking stunned. “What makes you think you can just –?!”

“And _you_!” Yuuri continues, pivoting around just in time for Viktor to catch a too-close, blurry picture of his face leaning towards him. Viktor blinks, caught off guard by how suddenly close to him Yuuri is. He lowers his phone, staring.

Then Yuuri Katsuki reaches forward, and – with a familiarity and ease so natural it practically takes his breath away – reaches forward and cups Viktor’s cheek with his hand.

“That face really is too nice to be allowed,” Yuuri tells him with incredible sincerity, leaning in close and holding Viktor’s gaze as he does so. His eyes trail down, lingering on Viktor’s mouth, and –

 _Oh_.

Yuuri _smiles_ at him, and it’s – it’s a breathtaking smile, quirked to one side and so earnest it could make the sun rise. He raises his eyebrows, cheeks flushed and eyes shining as he raises his eyes up to hold Viktor’s gaze again.

“How are the rest of us meant to compete?” Yuuri asks, something painfully earnest in his eyes.

By the time Viktor has recovered his senses enough to think straight, Yuuri has already pulled away – and has apparently appropriated a full bottle of champagne from somewhere, which he is now drinking directly from the bottle. Viktor numbly snaps a few pictures of him while he has a chance, a replying smile slowly spreading across his face as he does it.

“Hey! Moron!” Yuri Plisetsky shouts beside him, and people are _definitely_ starting to crowd around now, expressions of shock and intrigue beginning to appear around them. Yuuri starts to spin around like a sloppy approximation of a rotation on the ice, arms raised above his head and clearly acting as though he can’t hear him. “Oi! You incompetent _idiot_ , what do you think you’re _doing_?!”

“Ahhhh, you don’t scare me anymore, Russian Yuri!” Yuuri announces in a sing-song voice – before suddenly spinning around, pointing right at Yuri Plisetsky.

Or at least, he would be pointing if not for the half-full bottle of champagne he’s holding: it bubbles over his hand, spilling onto the floor without him seeming to notice.

“Let’s settle this the old-fashioned way,” Yuuri declares very seriously, narrowing his eyes. as he stares Yuri Plisetsky down.

Yuri blinks, suddenly uncertain. “The… old-fashioned way?”

Yuuri Katsuki thrusts both arms in the air, most champagne sloshing down his hand and soaking the arm of his suit jacket.

“ _Dance battle_!” he shouts to the ceiling, excited and eager and beyond ridiculous as the whole room gawks at him, and Viktor falls so hard it feels like crashing into the ice and landing a quadruple flip all at once.

 

\--

 

It’s the single most fun that Viktor has ever had at any banquet _ever_ , no competition.

Yuuri Katsuki is force of nature, a whirlwind of energy and charisma and _exhilaration._ He strips off his soaked jacket and hurls it onto a nearby chair, clears off the dance floor with the single-minded confidence of a man who knows without a shadow of a doubt that he’s going to get his way. The energy in the room changes, goes from something stiff and formal to something wild and unknown as Yuri Plisetsky charges after him, an aggressive bundle of earnest determination.

“ _Dance battle_!” Yuuri Katsuki shouts authoritatively at the gathering crowd as he rolls up his sleeves, re-fastens his tie around his neck with surprisingly nimble fingers. He hiccups, beaming and swaying a little on his feet as he scrolls through his phone, handing it to a startled-looking Mila. Gestures to the sound system across the room with exaggerated movements. “Plug this in, please?”

Yuuri beams at her as she snatches the phone from his hand and darts over, an expression of sadistic glee on her face. He raises his arms in the air again. “Dance battle! Yuuri versus Yuri!”

A few long moments pass, the people around them starting to shift a little awkwardly where they stand. Yuuri Katsuki just keeps beaming, seemingly unaware of the increasingly awkward silence around him.

“Shut up and _dance_ then, idiot,” Yuri Plisetsky snaps, crossing his arms. He throws his head back, scoffing loudly. “Or what, are you too afraid to –?”

With a sharp crackle of audio distortion, the gentle strains of classical music from the speakers cut off abruptly. There’s a beat, another large spike of static –

And then an entirely different kind of music starts blasting from the speakers around the room.

It’s far too loud at first, hastily moderated until it’s just right: a loud guitar riff spiralling into a upbeat rock rhythm, a buoyant voice driving the music forward with wordless enthusiasm.

And then Yuuri Katsuki is _hurling_ himself into the dance with wild abandon, goes from sloppy and slurring to bursting with competitive energy all at once. Viktor can’t believe how quickly he rallies himself, how instantaneously he changes; Yuuri’s obvious years of training cutting through his haze of inebriation to create a creature of exhilaration and control and precision. The other Yuri startles, takes a second to recover before bullishly following suit, committing himself just as unapologetically as the two of them strive to out-perform one another.

The two of them are a visual cacophony of exuberance, flinging themselves to the music, and Viktor can’t help but stare at Yuuri Katsuki. As though he can’t look away, utterly captivated.

Then Yuuri twists his body effortlessly into an almost-breakdancing move, his shirt riding up to expose a taut stretch of pale belly, a look of unfettered joy sprawled across his face. And Viktor feels something twist in the pit of his belly, because oh.

 _Oh_.

Yuuri Katsuki can _dance_.

“Is that _Yuuri_?” comes an incredulous voice beside him, and Viktor glances over just long enough to see that it’s Christophe, mouth hanging open in surprise. Viktor nods wordlessly, the biggest grin on his face as he pulls out his phone and starts recording a video with hands that are prickly with excitement. He hears Christophe let out a delighted laugh beside him. “I didn’t think he had it in him!”

“Neither did I,” Viktor admits. “GO YUURI!” he screams, laughing helplessly when both of them swivel their heads mid-dance to look at him.

He can see Yuri Plietsky scowling – the same one he makes whenever he’s trying not to smile – but Yuuri Katsuki doesn’t share the same compunction, doesn’t try to hide his joy. He _beams_ at Viktor instead, eyes bright and cheeks flushed and _beautiful._

Then he bends, twists – and pushes himself up into a one-handed handstand in perfect time with the music.

Viktor laughs in delight, rushes closer to the dance floor so he can capture the moment on video. Yuuri’s balance is incredible, his sense of rhythm so seamless that he swings back up onto his feet in perfect time to the music, and for the life of him Viktor can’t remember the last time he had so much _fun_.

 _His choreography is wasted on him if this is what he’s capable of_ , Viktor finds himself thinking distantly. Frowns a little as the thought occurs to him, taking a few steps back. His eyes move from the video recording on his phone to Yuuri in front of him: the complexity of his steps, the way he embodies the music.

The fact that Yuuri is a _dancer_ has never really come through in any of his performances – none of the ones that Viktor’s seen, at least. Has never highlighted that aspect of his performance.

Viktor’s frown deepens thoughtfully.

_If I were choreographing a piece for him, I’d –_

“Hey, that’s cheating!” Yuri Plisetsky shouts, dragging Viktor away from the thought.

It’s glorious chaos. The other skaters are watching from the sidelines as the two Yuris hurl themselves in the air and slide around the floor, contorting themselves into frenzied ballet positions and headstands.

By the time the song comes to an end, Yuri Plisetsky’s face is screwed up and he’s breathing a little heavily, shrugging at his boxy suit jacket as though it’s personally offended him by existing. By contrast, Yuuri Katsuki barely looks winded as he hops to his feet. He laughs, grins a little sheepishly – and raises his arms in an unambiguous gesture of triumph.

“Well done, Katsuki!” whoops Cao Bin, Sara Crispino practically screaming beside him. The cry is taken up by a handful of other people throughout the room, a ramshackle but unambiguous declaration of victory.

Yuuri Katsuki laughs, takes a slightly unsteady bow; Yuri Plisetsky scoffs and stalks back into the crowd, struggling to hide the pleased little smile threatening to nudge at the corners of his mouth.

For a second it looks as though the excitement is over, an instant of restless inattention as the people in the crowd visibly consider wandering off. 

Then the next song shuffles onto Yuuri’s phone: the sensual strains of a guitar, a hint of castanets – before the rhythmic swell of the violin takes hold. A Spanish-sounding song that that reaches out and captures everyone’s attention again, that hits Viktor right in the chest. 

Yuuri doesn’t pause, doesn’t hesitate; just eases right into the music, his entire demeanour changing effortlessly into something languid and controlled and sexual, and Viktor can’t help himself: stops recording the video, tucks his phone into his jacket pocket, and steps out onto the dance floor behind him.

It takes a little while for Yuuri to realize that someone else is dancing with him. He’s distracted at first, reels back a little when Christophe hurls himself down onto the floor in front of him and starts snapping pictures on his phone, and takes him a second to regain his footing.

Viktor approaches almost shyly behind him, lips pressed together and eyes fixed on the way Yuuri moves to the music. Trying to move in time with him, to tap into the same rhythm flowing through Yuuri’s veins.

 _Come on_ , Viktor thinks, would be embarrassed by the yearning ache in his chest if anyone else could hear him. His blood is pounding in his ears, and he’s having a hard time catching his breath even though he just started moving. He wants so badly for Yuuri to let him do this; for Yuuri to _want_ him to do this. _Come on, come on, please –_

Then Yuuri turns into a raised-arm spin, all elegance and grace and control as he turns his head toward him – and for a second, when his eyes light on Viktor, he freezes. His eyes widen a fraction, a deer caught in the headlights.

And then the moment passes. Yuuri’s gaze softens, his body relaxing into something looser, easier. His movement changes, melts into something captivating and electric as he holds Viktor’s gaze intently.

There’s an incredible passion to the way he moves, as though his body is creating music as he dances. He arches, unfurls; moves completely in time with the rhythm as though he can taste it, as though he can breathe it in. Viktor can’t keep his eyes off him, keeps turning to steal a glance over his shoulder whenever he turns away. Knows that he _needs_ to keep watching Yuuri dance the same way he needs air in his lungs, the way he needs to feel the drag of the ice beneath his feet.

The two of them move together perfectly, seem to _fit_ in a way Viktor can’t wrap his head around. As though their bodies are an extension of one another, like he’s suddenly discovered a piece of himself he never knew was missing.

 _If he’d skated like this yesterday, he wouldn’t have come last_ , Viktor thinks dimly as Yuuri raises an arm in the air and arches with incredible precision, his eyes fixed on what remains of the crowd as though to seduce every one of them, to draw them into his soul.

Viktor shivers.

A smile breaks across Yuuri’s face, breaking the spell as he shoots a delighted look in Viktor’s direction.

“That all you’ve got?” Yuuri asks him playfully, his eyes bright with champagne and his cheeks still flushed pink.

Viktor chokes on a helpless breath.

“Just you wait,” Viktor replies coyly, stripping off his suit jacket and brandishing it like a matador for a moment before putting it back on with a flourish.

Yuuri laughs with obvious pleasure, eyes darkening. He steps towards him, moving in close –

And then Viktor can feel one of Yuuri’s long, slender hands sliding around his waist, guiding him effortlessly until they’re dancing together. Really _dancing_ together, and all at once Viktor forgets to think, forgets to breathe. He’s so close Viktor can feel the heat of his breath against the back of his neck, can feel the heat of his skin through his clothes.

The crackling energy thrumming under Viktor’s skin subsides to a dull roar, a sense of perfect calm and rightness settling over him as he feels himself drawn in close.

Then he closes his eyes, leans into the touch, and gives in completely as he lets Yuuri lead.

 

\--

 

Two hours later, Viktor comes to the conclusion that he is not nearly as graceful a lead as Yuuri was.

To be fair, however, Yuuri is both: a) fucking heavy, and b) _incredibly uncooperative_.

“Vik- _tor_ ,” Yuuri hums contentedly, his breath tickling the side of Viktor’s neck as he nuzzles unashamedly closer. One arm is thrown over Viktor’s shoulders, and his feet are half-dragging along the ground as they walk down the long ( _so_ long, was it this long before the banquet?) hotel hallway towards what he very much hopes is Yuuri’s bedroom. He sighs deeply, his weight settling further against Viktor’s side. “Vik- _tor_.”

“That’s right,” Viktor tells him, pressing his lips together to hide a smile. He shifts Yuuri’s weight against his side, readjusts his arm over his shoulders. “I’m right here.”

For a second, Viktor wonders whether he should make a show of teasing Yuuri about all this; wrangling him back into his clothes in the banquet hall, dragging him back to his hotel room, being clung to as though Yuuri Katsuki is the world’s most handsy limpet.

Then his mind flashes to all the photos on his phone, safely tucked into his pocket: the two-Yuri dance-off, Yuuri being drunk and adorable, Yuuri and Christophe _pole-dancing_ together. The sneaky ones he took of Yuuri, wearing boxers and his tie around his head like a bandana, sneaking even _more_ champagne before the last of it was spirited away by the staff. He thinks about the photos that Chris took: the ones of Viktor and Yuuri dancing together before the evening got too out-of-hand, the ones he fully intends to text Chris and demand for himself the second he steps foot in his own hotel room again.

 _Later_ , Viktor thinks fondly as he maneuvers the two of them down the hallway, glancing warmly down at Yuuri’s head lolling against his chest. _You can tease him about it later._  

It occurs to him abruptly that Yuuri has been mumbling something against the side of his neck for a few seconds. Viktor blinks, trying and failing to understand what he’s saying before belatedly realizing that he’s been speaking Japanese.

“ _Yuu_ -ri,” says Viktor softly, stressing the first syllable of his name. He keeps scanning the hallway as he says it, keeping an eye out for the room number he coaxed out of Yuuri in the elevator ride upstairs. “English.”

_314, 316, 318…_

“Mm?” Yuuri asks him, his head lolling a little against Viktor’s chest as he strains his head to look up at him. He blinks dazedly, his cheeks still adorably pink. “Oh. Oh, I was just… just saying that you’ll love it there, Viktor.” He staggers slightly against him, and Viktor tightens his grip just in time to stop him sliding down onto the floor. “In Hasetsu… my hometown.”

Viktor sucks in a sharp breath, tightening his grip on Yuuri’s body against his without meaning to.

_Be my coach, Viktor!_

The sound of Yuuri’s words from earlier ring in his ears they shuffle together down the hallway, _be my coach be my coach be my coach_ like a joyous mantra inside his head.

The idea is outrageous, absolutely insane. The ramblings of a very drunk (and very handsome, very talented, very _adorable)_ man. Viktor is already twenty-seven; at his age, taking a year off to coach would almost certainly mean the end of his competitive skating career. It would mean the loss of sponsorship deals, prestige, momentum; would be the single biggest career decision he’s made since he first started entering competitions at age twelve.

At face value, Viktor has nothing to gain from that kind of decision. It just doesn’t add up.

In the back of his mind, though, Viktor also knows that there is no quantifiable way to measure the way that skating and competing and _winning_ have all become so achingly routine to him over the last few years. How helpless he’s felt, watching as something he used to love – to feel _passionately_ about – seemed to fade and tarnish until it was just another kind of drudgery; no more surprises, no more thrills.

Just the same thing every year: train hard, skate well, win. Smile for the press, make nice with the sponsors. Keep doing it over and over and over again until his body gives out, until he can’t do it anymore.

Until the one thing he’s ever been good at finally drives him into the ground, leaves him with nothing but drawers full of dusty medals and empty spaces where his loved ones should be. 

Over the course of a few short hours, Yuuri has made Viktor happier tonight than he’s been in _years_. It’s a hard realization to have, but a good one nonetheless. He smiles tightly, his eyes burning a little as he squeezes Yuuri snug against his chest.

His eyes scan the hallway again, finally landing on extremely welcome sight: a plain wooden door with _342_ across it in gold script. Viktor exhales in relief, starts trying to hoist Yuuri up into a standing position.

“Yuuri,” Viktor murmurs, propping him up awkwardly against the wall – and letting out a covert sigh of relief at not having to hold up his weight anymore. Yuuri blinks, looks up at Viktor in fuzzy confusion, seemingly not pleased to be dragged away from him. He smiles. “Yuuri, I need your room key.”

It takes a few minutes, but eventually they track down Yuuri’s room key in his suit jacket pocket, Viktor experiencing a brief flash of profound relief that he’d bothered to collect it from its place on the back of a banquet hall chair.

The keypad flashes green, the door pushing open easily under his fingers.

“We made it!” Viktor exclaims triumphantly as he leads Yuuri inside, finally feeling like he can talk in a normal speaking voice as soon as the hotel room door clicks shut behind them. He leads Yuuri over to the bed, flicking on one of the bedside table lamps before turning to face Yuuri, a triumphant expression on his face. “See, I told you that I’d –”

The rest of the sentence is cut off when Yuuri steps in closer to Viktor, fists his hands in the front of Viktor’s suit jacket, and drags him forcefully down onto the bed with him.

Viktor lets out muffled cry of undignified surprise as he falls, landing right on top of Yuuri, one hand on either side of his head. Stares down in shock as Yuuri licks his lips, eyes darting from Viktor’s eyes to his mouth before he arches up – and grinds deliciously against him, letting out a breathy sigh.

“Viktor,” Yuuri breathes, biting his lip as he stares up at Viktor on top of him. His eyes are shining with something dark and unknowable. His accent is thicker than it has been the rest of the night; with alcohol or desire or exhaustion, or maybe a combination of the three. He tightens his grip on Viktor’s suit jacket, trying to pull him down closer. “Viktor, _please_.”

He says it like he has no idea what he wants, but he knows for a fact that Viktor is the only one who can give it to him, and it’s enough to make Viktor stifle a groan.

It’s so much better than the haphazard way Yuuri had wiggled against him right before they left the banquet hall together, Viktor’s eyes wide with shock as Yuuri clutched him around the middle. It’s also infinitely worse, because this is Yuuri’s bedroom and Yuuri looks like pure sex sprawled underneath him, and no. No no no no no, this _absolutely cannot happen._

“Yuuri,” Viktor says, the word coming out thicker than he means it to. He swallows hard, tries to pull away enough that he can get himself off the bed. Yuuri doesn’t let him; keeps his hands fisted tight in Viktor’s suit jacket. Yuuri stares up at him quizzically, tilting his head to one side. Viktor swallows. “Yuuri, you’re drunk.”

“I don’t care,” Yuuri tells him with absolute certainty, voice brimming with conviction and certainty. Staring up at Viktor with an expression of such raw desire and want and _need_ that it Viktor can’t help shivering.

He’s beyond beautiful like this; the lines of his pale face undisturbed by the thick frames of his glasses, dark hair pushed back in an attempt to get it out of his eyes. The delicate lines of his throat are clearly visible in the lamplight, glimpses of his exposed chest where his top shirt buttons are undone and hanging open. His body is warm and real beneath him, and he’s so close Viktor can feel the heat of his breath against his lips. Is achingly aware of how _good_ Yuuri smells, like soap and clean sweat and the ghost of champagne on his lips.

Viktor shuts his eyes, takes the briefest moment to commit the way Yuuri looks _right now_ – sprawled beneath him and desperate and _beautiful_ – to memory.

“Maybe not,” Viktor says slowly, opening his eyes and looking down at him softly. “But I do.”

There’s a quiet pause, a lull in the back-and-forth between them. After a moment, it becomes apparent that Yuuri’s eyes are starting to drift closed; despite his urging, the exhaustion must finally be catching up with him now that he’s lying down.

After a moment Yuuri slowly blinks his eyes open, then reaches up with a pale hand to cup Viktor’s cheek.

“Mm,” Yuuri murmurs, a small smile curling at the edge of his mouth. “I used to… it was just like this,” he says, his words slightly jumbled together with fatigue. 

Blinking, Viktor cocks his head to one side.

“What was just like this?” he asks, genuinely curious.

Beneath him Yuuri bites his bottom lip, turning his head away almost bashfully. There’s a deeper pink flush rising in his cheeks, and for a second he _squirms_ a little beneath Viktor, as though he’s said something embarrassing.

The sense of innocent allure he exudes is so overwhelming it’s almost enough to make Viktor _groan._ He’s suddenly incredibly aware of how achingly, _painfully_ hard he is inside his trousers. Wonders helplessly whether Yuuri can feel him where their hips are pressed together.

Beneath him, Yuuri huffs out a light breath.

“When I used to… used to…”

He licks his lips, glancing up through his eyelashes. Hesitating over the next words as though uncertain of the translation. He swallows, Viktor’s eyes instinctively tracking the movement of his throat.

For an awful second Viktor thinks Yuuri might be about to regale him with the story of an old lover – the absolute last thing he wants to hear about, he thinks sharply, fingers tightening instinctively in the sheets on either side of Yuuri’s face.

“When I used to… touch myself,” Yuuri says at last, avoiding Viktor’s eyes as he says it. He licks his lips. “Staring at your face on my wall. It was just like this. Only… only this is better.”

There is weighted pause that follows this statement, Viktor staring down at Yuuri beneath him in dumbfounded astonishment. His mouth forms words but no sound comes out, his brain completely unable to string the rush of sudden thoughts and images and ideas together into any kind of coherent order. Viktor feels his cock twitch treacherously inside his dress pants, a rush of heat up his spine leaving him flushed and breathless. 

_He… he used to…_

Viktor hears the helpless groan escape from his own mouth before he registers making it, closes his eyes and hangs his head as he silently exercises more self-control than he was previously aware he possessed.

 _Nothing if not full of surprises,_ Viktor thinks weakly. He can feel Yuuri’s grip loosening on his suit jacket, hands starting to slump against his chest.

Viktor opens his eyes again, still quietly reeling from this revelation, and discovers that – to add insult to injury – Yuuri’s eyes have fallen completely closed. His face is slackened with sleep and his mouth is hanging adorably open, his face pressed more heavily into the softness of his pillow.

“You’re trying to kill me,” Viktor tells Yuuri’s sleeping form feebly, shaking his head in wretched disbelief as Yuuri breathes slowly and deeply. “You’re trying to _kill_ me, Yuuri Katsuki, it’s the only answer. I’m only human, you know. I only have so much strength.”

At this point Yuuri lets out a small snore beneath him, the sound making Viktor choke on an almost hysterical giggle. He shakes his head again in wordless disbelief before beginning to carefully disentangle himself from Yuuri’s body, pausing on the edge of the bed. Selfishly taking the opportunity to take in the sight of him one last time. 

In sleep, Yuuri looks _at peace_ in a way that Viktor has never seen him before – as though his need to perform has been laid to rest. As though a world of expectations and demands has finally been lifted from his shoulders.

Slowly, carefully, Viktor reaches out and smooths one of his hands through Yuuri’s dark hair.

Yuuri Katsuki, Japanese National Men’s Figure Skating Champion, who dances like his body is the thing making the music, who loves his hometown and tells other skaters they’re talented and can put away champagne like no one Viktor’s ever _seen_.

Who turned on his heels and walked in the other direction the last time Viktor tried to reach out to him, but then spent an entire evening making Viktor smile and laugh and feel so _complete_.

He is all of them at once, and he is none of them right now.

He is Yuuri Katsuki, and Viktor is so spectacularly, _stupidly_ lucky he still can’t wrap his head around it yet.  

“I’ll come,” Viktor tells Yuuri’s sleeping form softly, an impossibly fond smile nudging at the corner of his mouth. He runs his fingers through Yuuri’s hair one last time, something warm and incomprehensible unfurling in his chest when Yuuri sleepily leans into the touch. “To be your coach. I’ll come, Yuuri. If you want me.”

Viktor takes off Yuuri’s shoes before he leaves, fishes around in Yuuri’s discarded suit jacket until he finds his phone and glasses in the pockets. Leaves both next to the bed along with a glass of water from the bathroom sink, hesitates for a few long minutes before deciding on exactly what to put in the note he leaves on Yuuri’s bedside table:

 

_Yuuri,_

_I had an incredible time dancing with you last night. Text me when you wake up and I’ll come by with coffee._

_I can’t wait to hear from you._

_Viktor N.  
+7 812 638 2241_

 

When Viktor leaves, it’s with a smile on his face and the exhilarating promise of _tomorrow_ warm and alive inside his chest. 

 

 

 

 

Six hours later, Katsuki Yuuri lurches out of bed with both the single worst hangover he’s ever experienced along with the horrific realization that he has to be at the airport in _less than an hour_.

Blind panic gets him flailing his way out of bed, racing to the bathroom with his hand clamped over his mouth until he crashes onto the ground and _wretches_ the contents of his stomach into the toilet. He clutches at the porcelain, letting out a pathetic sob as his phone starts ringing in the other room – Celestino calling to ask why he isn’t in the lobby yet and oh god, he has to go, he has to _leave_.

He throws everything into his bag in record time, reeling as he bolts out the door, clutching the ice bucket to his chest just in case and repeating an endless stream of _I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry!_ to his coach over his cell phone as he goes.

The gust of air as he slams the door shut behind him sends a carefully-written note on hotel stationery off the bedside table, unseen and unread as it flutters to the floor.

 

 

 

 

**The End**

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading! If you enjoyed this story, please consider leaving a comment. 
> 
> If you _really_ enjoyed this story, feel free to reblog my post about it [here](http://emilianadarling.tumblr.com/post/155311618726/fic-right-off-his-feetby-emilianadarling) or join me over on [ my tumblr](http://emilianadarling.tumblr.com).


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